similar the victim’s flesh was in tone.
There was a different, more pungent odour now. It pervaded the large room and Brennan watched as McGuire raised his hand towards his mouth and tweaked the tip of his nose a few times.
Pettigrew looked at the clock on the wall as a young man walked through the door and muttered apologetically, ‘The buses were late.’
‘Get scrubbed up, and be quick about it.’
The pathologist’s assistant threw himself into a gown and started to scrub up. He seemed jolly as he joined the others. ‘Morning folks, how goes it today?’
Nods. A chorus of ‘Good morning.’
‘Right,’ said Pettigrew.
His first scalpel cut pierced the sternum and exposed a layer of yellow subcutaneous fat. The tissue was attached to the flesh and always struck Brennan as being far too bright, much brighter than any butcher’s meat. He watched as the pathologist removed the dead girl’s organs, weighed them, and replaced them in the body cavity. All the while his attendant washed away what blood there was with a hand-held hose; the blood ran down the slab and through a hole onto the cement floor where it met a drain and was carried away.
No one spoke for a while as the procedure was carried out. Brennan was the first to break the silence, ‘What about that, when are you going to look at that?’
He was staring at the victim’s head.
‘I have a procedure,’ said Pettigrew.
Brennan lowered his voice, it seemed too loud for the room. ‘Just the mouth, please. The cloth.’
The pathologist walked from the middle of the slab to the top. He creased up his eyes as he bent over, poked a finger into the girl’s mouth. ‘Yes, there’s something in there.’
‘What is it?’ said Brennan.
‘I can’t really see…’ He moved away, withdrew a slender grapple-hook, like a dentist’s instrument from his top pocket. ‘It’s soaked with blood of course…’
‘Can you remove it?’
As Pettigrew eased the item from the girl’s mouth it looked like a tight red ball, a crumpled-up piece of cotton. He laid it down on the table to the side of the slab and started to ease it open with his fingers and the chromium instrument.
‘Yes, looks like undergarments,’ he said.
The others watched as he unravelled cotton panties.
‘He’s gagged her with them…’ said Gallagher.
‘Suffocated her, you mean,’ said Brennan.
Pettigrew continued to poke at the blood-caked panties. ‘Hang on a minute…’ There was something wrapped up inside.
‘What is it?’ said Brennan.
The pathologist hovered over the small bundle. ‘There’s more here
…’ he pointed with his gloved finger. ‘Look, it’s flesh, brittle flesh
… Hang on.’ He took a long-nosed pair of scissors, eased them under the dark, pulpy tissue. The material was brittle, hard. As he snipped through, dark patches of blood crumbled and fell onto the table. Pettigrew leaned in again, picked up the thin, tight strips of flesh. ‘Oh, my God…’
‘What is it?’ said Brennan yet again.
‘I think I’ve found the genitalia.’
Gallagher spoke, ‘There’s no doubt this is a sexual predator now.’
Brennan looked to Pettigrew; he was laying aside the scissors.
‘Well, it’s hard to tell… but…’
Brennan prompted, ‘But what?’
Pettigrew raised his hands, waved one over the victim’s head. ‘Well, there is the eyes… they’re not there. They’ve been appropriated.’
Gallagher tapped on the slab with his forefinger. ‘I told you! It’s a trophy take. We had this on the Fiona Gow case too.’ He turned to Brennan. ‘We’re after the same guy… Tell me you doubt me now.’
Chapter 15
DI Rob Brennan steadied himself before the whiteboard in Incident Room One, knew he was staring into an abyss. He tapped two fingertips on his cheekbone, removed his hand, buried it in his trouser pocket, and nervously started to thumb the wedding ring he was unsure he should still be wearing. His mind was pervaded with confusion. The body of a young woman had been found, mutilated in the most grotesque fashion. As he looked at the photographs of Lindsey Sloan’s ivory-white corpse he wondered what it was that he was missing. The answer, he told himself, was a clear line of enquiry to follow. Nothing had presented itself. The team had been door-to-door, checked the victim’s background and spoken to her known associates. The girl had no obvious enemies, lived a quiet life. She was not a typical murder victim. It was as if she had been plucked from the street and singled out for her brutal death in some sick lottery. The more he played with the events of her death, the more it baffled him.
Lindsey Sloan had a life, a family; she was someone’s daughter. Thoughts of his own daughter now emerged; he knew he had to call Sophie soon. He would have to explain why her stable family unit had been blown asunder. Why her father was no longer going to be a part of her daily life. The thought stabbed at him. Brennan couldn’t bear inflicting any kind of pain on her; he could not comprehend the true hurt the Sloans now faced. He wondered if he would ever be strong enough to take such a blow.
‘Christ, Rob,’ he whispered.
He was losing focus; was it because he had none? The case had him mystified. He knew there were always pieces of the puzzle that remained elusive, in every case, but this case seemed to be unlike anything he had ever known. How did a young girl end up in a field, strangled, with a broken neck and multiple wounds? What had she done? Who had she encountered that was capable of such evil? There had to be something he’d missed; there had to be somewhere to begin the search. The clues were out there, they always were — he knew this. He also knew Lindsey Sloan’s murder was not a one-off; this killer had struck before, Jim Gallagher had all but proven this. And all the received wisdom indicated this kind of killer would strike again; unless he was stopped.
DS Stevie McGuire appeared at Brennan’s side; he had closed a hand around a blue file, folded it beneath his arm. ‘That was Joe Lorrimer on the phone,’ he said.
The sound of the DS’s voice broke Brennan’s concentration, brought him back to reality. ‘Oh, aye.’
‘He’ll be with us later today.’
‘Good.’ Brennan was not in the mood for conversation; he returned his gaze to the whiteboard, brought his hands together and worked them like he was lathering soap.
‘There’s not much to go on, is there?’ said McGuire. He seemed insistent on pulling the DI into a discourse.
‘Not much at all.’
McGuire raised the blue file in his hand, ‘I’ve been through the Fiona Gow file… no answers there either.’
Brennan turned, frowned. ‘Where is Jim?’
‘He’s gone for a bite. I asked him for the profiler’s report on Fiona Gow, but I can’t see what it’s going to add.’
Brennan turned round to face the DS, eased himself onto the edge of the table next to the photocopier, was resigned to debate the case’s slow progress. The tabletop creaked as he settled himself, folded arms. ‘It’ll add fuck all, even if it ties in with Lorrimer’s judgements, without a break.’
McGuire nodded, tapped the blue file off his thigh. ‘Jim seemed happy enough to have the two cases linked up.’
‘He would, wouldn’t he… Jim’s after this case, wants to take over.’
